My Brothers Wife
by TimeslessTQ
Summary: Tracy and Monica have managed for decades to keep their desires to themselves. Now with Alan's passing, there is nothing to stop the fire from raging. Femslash, so be warned there is sexual content between women. I dont own any of the characters
1. Chapter 1 Awakening

My Brothers wife. Chapter 1

Characters Tracy and Monica Quartermaine

I do not own EITHER character,

Rating M

Sex, yes, and if two women succumbing to each other offends you, I suggest you read something else.

Chapter : Awakening:

The house was quiet, too quiet.

Tracy couldn't bring herself to retire to the boathouse and was instead in Edward and Lila's old room pacing, looking over photos, choking back tears and becoming increasingly agitated that this house that usually bustled with life at any given time, was silent.

The recent past had seen many losses in the Quartermaine family. Almost more then she could bear. The passing of Lila was the deepest cut of all to the entire family, but Tracy,…Tracy took it worst of anyone.

And now Alan, her brother, that had just about done her in.

Though quiet, Tracy wasn't the only one here. Down the hall, behind a closed door, Monica was too mourning, lost and afraid. She sat on the edge of the bed, slowly spinning her wedding band on her finger.

With the after service reception over, and Alan buried, now was truly the first time that Monica faced the first night of many alone. And like Tracy, Monica didn't do alone well at all.

Monica and Tracy were the quintessential Ying and Yang of the Quartermaine women.

Monica, for the most part, the benevolent Dr., was light, kind and involved. Lovely, intelligent and dedicated, she proved a fair leveling agent over the years of odd situations this family managed to get into. Monica was a rare Quartermaine, as she had some modicum of a conscience; her shield was on the inside. She had a tough heart, but would rather appear softer and a woman of reason to the world around her.

Monica, a skilled surgeon, with scalpel in hand, could heal, and repair

And then you have Tracy, dark, hard, chiseled, and beautiful, who wore her armor exteriorly. This woman could master any situation to her advantage, the brilliant, consummate opportunist.

Now granted, Tracy from time to time was capable of fleeting compassion that could make your knees weak with its splendor and sincerity, and as soon as she knew that that side of her peeked thru, that her severe vulnerability shone…her chill would return, brutal and detached and her guard was back up.

Tracy, the primal manipulator, with knife behind her back, could wound and destroy.

Weighing in on them both, they were so different, yet so very alike.

"I cannot take this infernal SILENCE anymore,. I need a drink" muttered Tracy as she stormed downstairs

Down the hall, Monica startled when she heard the door open, then slam. She had almost forgotten Tracy was in the house, and was strangely relieved that the stillness was disturbed.

She too, decided to leave her and Alan's room, and calm her head with a beverage.

Dropping a few pieces of ice into heavy lead crystal was a favorite pastime of Tracy's. The sounds, the ritual of it, the pouring of the heady single malt, the creak and crack of the cubes shattering as the Scotch flowed around them, that Oak laden aroma as she raises the "cure-all" to her lips, and the feel of the world easing as the warmth coats her throat.

Her head back, eyes closed, she takes her first full breath since the funeral.

"It looks like we've come to the same conclusion" says Monica as she enters the room.

Tracy remains for one more second, reveling in the temporary peace she has found, before turning to face Monica.

"Same for you?" she asks as she reaches for another glass.

" Yes, but I've got it" she is stopped by the wave of Tracy's hand.

"No, no,..sit down, I can pour more then one you know" she states with her usual protective sarcasm. "I am just a wiz at multi-tasking"

Monica manages a weak smile, and thanks Tracy as she takes the drink then has a seat.

Tracy sits down on the opposite end of the couch, and sighs heavily, the black silk robe falling slightly open, revealing her thigh.

Monica sees this, and a sentence careens through her head.(God she looks tired, how does she hold up under the pressure of her life, and still look radiant?). This was not a new thought, and yet Monica was a bit stunned that it ran thru her mind at this moment, not to mention the sensation in her stomach. She took a long pull on her Scotch.

"I'm going to miss that son of a bitch." Tracy said softly, voice slightly cracking, smiling to herself

This was a comment that anyone else would have been scorned for as horrible and insensitive by Monica. But this was Tracy, pure Tracy, and Monica let it slide

"After Mother died, I had this strange illusion in place, that Alan and I would continue this race together, blood bound, brother and sister."

Monica listened as Tracy continued.

"I truly believed he would just BE here, always, the last immortal, can't touch us Quartermaine" She rubs her forehead as this was past fantasy, and here was bitter reality.

"I'm sorry Tracy, this has been an awful year for you,..for all of us, but you mostly"

"Come on Monica, don't patronize, this isn't about me, (That is one thing Monica NEVER thought she'd hear out of Tracy Quartermaines mouth!) Alan may have been my brother, but you were married to the big goon. He was yours beyond what he could ever be to me, or Father and Mother. And that is just what I knew and accepted (and hated…rang in her skull) .

A wife is not a sister, not just a friend, you managed to give him normalcy in this messed up family, and THAT is NO short order Monica. You were all things and you made him happy"

Monica is still. She knows this pattern, so she sits taking in the consoling, waiting for the bite

"This family loved you Monica, it still loves you. You were _**ALWAYS**_ the port, and I was, and will always remain" she pauses…" the storm."

She stops at her own analogy, and stands to get another drink. She felt a sense of envy cross her heart, one that now was not the time or place for, one that had more sides then one would think. Here comes the armor again.

She looked over at Monica who was resting her chin on her hand, eyes closed; blonde hair falling over her shoulders, turquoise pajama shirt opened one button too far. She found herself taking her in in a way she always tried to avoid.

"You need a refill?" Tracy asked "I know I sure as hell do"

"Here Tracy," Monica stands, "let me", and she steps beside the drink cart and reaches for the glass.

"What the hell Monica, I may be out of sorts, but the day I cannot pour a scotch is the day I'll be in the Vault with the rest of the family"

"I agree, but I also agree that things need, on a very VERY real level to remain normal, whatever _that _is, and YOU waiting on me just isn't normal…o.k.?" Monica was adamant

Tracy sets the glass down with a snit, and notices again the undone extra button showing a glimpse of Monica's skin, and finds herself flush warm at this sight. She likes Monica asserting herself. Tracy always loved when she toughened up a bit.

"FINE, make your own drink." Monica reaches to claim the glass, but Tracy doesn't let go. Emotions begin to reel.

"We all know you're a big girl. And since you want to play normal, let's DO remember the order of things in this house"

She leans in towards Monica, both their hands on the same tumbler. She is close, dangerously close.

"Make mine too" she hisses, testing Monica's resolve, staring her dead in the eyes. Now THIS feels like old times, and Tracy grins inside to herself that for the first time all day, her thoughts were in the living, not the dead.

Monica quakes and hopes Tracy didn't see, but not much is missed by that woman. Those eyes, those wicked blue eyes. Monica usually avoids too much direct contact with them. It always felt like staring at a wild animal, provoking it.

Just not a good idea, but for some reason, she held Tracy's gaze.

These were two women on a precipice, hurt, lonely, angry, full of latent desire, and just enough alcohol. This is a dance they danced for decades, building into a ruthless game of cat and mouse, good girl, bad girl, and it worked to keep their real feelings firmly in check.

There was only ONE person who always managed to keep that line in the sand from blurring. Respected, mutually loved and revered. One reason was common to NEVER cross that boundary over all these years, and that was Alan,…and now

Alan was gone.

The tension is thrilling. They both know what they want, and after almost 30 years, it cannot be avoided one second longer

Monica leers back, jaw fixed and all she can think of to say, is "Fuck you Tracy"

Tracy lets go of the tumbler, and sternly slips a hand behind Monica's neck, pulling her close, and moving her mouth to Monica's ear. The bridge is gapped and both women stand ridged, hearts pounding so loudly it's as if the walls themselves will crumble.

"Now that's the spirit honey, I've waited for that proposition for way too long" she seethed at an evil whisper.

Holding Monica fast, she grazes her jaw line with her parted lips, and faces her again. Basking in this moment as if she had finally held her prey in one clawed hand, she leans back in, stare fixed, pushing the envelope, wondering if Monica will stop her.

The earth turns to quicksand under Monica's feet, as Tracy brushes lips against lips, and then, like a bolt of white hot lightning, Tracy closes her mouth over hers, and that longed for, warm sweet tongue slips inside.

This causes an electric shutter to run through Monica, and a moan to escape through her nose.

She has a nano-second where she considered pulling away, but who was she kidding. She brings her hands up to either side of Tracy's face. This is exactly where she wanted to be.

Monica returns this kiss with fervor, tongues wrestle and dance and vie for dominance, and Tracy realizes the old adage of Be careful what you wish for.

Never one for less then a good round of one-upmanship, she reaches between then and clasps the open sides of Monica's top in each hand. With a primal lust burning her alive she tears the shirt open. Buttons tink off the wall and floor as they fly.

This breaks the kiss, and Monica gasps. She stands there, the glisten of sweat already apparent on her belly, and chest.

Tracy glides her hands down between supple breasts, to Monica's trembling abdomen, not once losing her eyes.

Making a path. A deliberate slight line, with slow methodical fingertips, and then back up her stomach.

She feels Monica shaking, and fights that same tremor in herself, but is losing the battle.

A sensual smile of delight, at how her hard nipples feel against her palms, crosses Tracy's face as her hands cover Monica's female forum.

And as the game is set to run into second gear…the doorbell rings harsh and cold


	2. A Statement Of Fact

"You have GOT to be fucking kidding me"…growls Tracy in a 30 year pent up huff.

"Just don't answer it",. Says Monica breathlessly, not wanting this symphony of touch to end. She pulls Tracy in, finding her mouth once more, eager, delirious, and afraid this will lead to second thoughts on either end, if it stops

Ding dong, reverberates, metallic, echoed, and icy.

"SHIT,..shit shit SHIT!" Tracy is beside herself, but someone, considering the events of the day, HAS to see who that is.

She grabs Monica's jaw, fixing her with a glazed stare "This is NOT over, not by a long shot." and bolts to the door in a hurried blur of black silk.

Monica is left to herself. This is sobering, reflective, and hard. "Alan", her wits scream, "Oh my God what am I doing" she says out loud at a shaky whisper.

Bringing her fingers to her lips, closing her eyes, reliving that kiss, how Tracy's tongue felt in her mouth, her fingertips on her skin, then coming to her senses, she pulls her blouse closed, and a tear crests her lower lid, and slips down her cheek

An epiphany crashes down on Monica. This woman, "Tracy God-damned Quartermaine" was the source of so many sleepless nights, insults, and injury. She was the bane of Monica's existence, and the thorn in her side.

Tracy was the never ending source of frustration that was always the precursor to the thousands of feuds, and snide remarks bantered back and forth over the years.

"Tracy God Damned Quartermaine" was also the only woman she ever craved.

Deeply rooted, buried, and hidden from others, yet always scratching the surface like nails from the inside of her skin.

Monica's head scrambled to see, smell, and feel everything again that had happened only moments ago.

The truth of what is playing out was suddenly as evident as the ache between her legs.

There were no more breaks on this, no rhyme or reason to stop. No one left to hurt, no one left to betray, and it scared her to death.

In that second of thought, another notion was hatched. That was, why Tracy hadn't returned yet?

Monica was gripped with confusion and fear at that lofty question that loomed overhead.

She had waited over 30 years, watching in silent need.

She had studied Tracy like the secreted voyeur. Monica had been fascinated for years at Tracy's very definitive style. How could one not be taken with her casual, yet calculating ways, her deep intelligence and cunning, matched only by her lack of censorship or apology?

Her moods were filed into Monica's mental rolodex. Not that Tracy was predictable, that was hardly the case, but Monica knew her, knew her thresholds, her line in the sand, and her breaking point.

She knew that this woman never did anything small, half hearted or half assed. Things made sense to Tracy, and those in her path, in her world, either went along, or were left burning beside the road.

Life to Tracy was to be wrestled, harnessed and brought to its knees with no excuses. Life was a mission, to be executed with strength, wits, and the end result was to never touch the damning poison of remorse or regret.

It was her world after all to do with as she pleased.

There were no rules except for her own.

She knew no matter what Tracy felt, be it anger, love, revenge, hunger, angst or abhorrence; it was felt deeply, and fiercely.

Monica danced warily in the light cast by Tracy's spectrum over the years, even though her facets were sharp as the razors edge.

Now? Here and now, Monica was just begging to feel the cool blades enter her skin.

Even as she rounds the foyer crazed, Tracy stops short, a chill careens through her. A finger length away from the knob, she stops and pulls herself too, before she opens the door.

The cold evening air hits her damp flesh and raises goose bumps on her arms.

"Ms Quartermaine. I want to convey my deepest sympathy and condolence regarding your brother. I hate to intrude at this time, but I believe this is your purse? It was found in the church"

Tracy's head spun into a million different directions, and she fought hard to not snap with utter annoyance.

The reality of Alan being gone was crushing yes.

Though not seen for what it was, Tracy did have a soul. But this intrusion over a purse was just too much.

As the solemn pleasantries were exchanged, her thoughts wandered to Monica's kiss, soft, warm, and so inviting. She wanted that kiss beyond reason at this point.

As these images flooded her, warping the moment, her heart began to thrum in her ears.

Ms. Quartermaine? Asked the man at the door timidly, and Tracy wondered if he had noticed her face flush crimson.

Snapping back to the moment, she thanked Lloyd, and closed the door but did not rush back to Monica.

This was Tracy's moment. She set this into motion, and was not going to give up the road, the journey or the destination to anyone. She smiled to herself, and the look of a warrior in the throws of conquest crept behind her eyes deepening their hue to Midnight Lapis, and setting her perfect teeth into a feral smile..

She waited and contemplated what was going on in Monica head. Was she breathless and hunger struck as her? Was she nervous?

Was she wet?

The last thought caused Tracy to close her eyes, and inhale deep, letting her hands brush languidly over her own breasts, causing a slight tense grunt as they passed over sensitive nubs.

Tracy was not a woman to lose her cool, or appear anxious about anything, no matter how the pull to run back into the other room was agonizingly strong.

Monica had been a formidable foe through out there intermingled lives. She could hold her own with the family, and fit in well.

Like the grout between shower tiles, she thought quizzically to herself.

But now, this was an entirely different animal. Not one single double take, stuttered word, or casual breath, to capture her scent, when she was close was missed by Tracy.

She enjoyed immensely the fact she rattled Monica. And she shook her tree every chance she got.

How she would bend a bit further in Monica's direction picking the newspaper up from the coffee table, revealing just a hint of her negligee under a not so tightly wrapped robe every Sunday morning.

Or lulling a piece if ice on the bottom of a drained tumbler with a provocative finger, only to slip it into her mouth for that last taste before the refill.

Oh how Monica would jump when she slipped silent into a room where she was alone. She could get so close to Monica that she could smell her, before Monica would whirl around with a start, red faced, and stammering.

She knew Monica's buttons,, alllllll of them. Pushing them until it erupted into a Classic Quartermaine tiff was the ultimate foreplay.

Tracy was smiling to herself as her own realizations clicked.

"Oh my this is going to be too much fun" she grinned wickedly

She averted her eyes to the ceiling and pulled in a heavy breath, and expelled it with equal austerity.

"Composure Tracy" she said to herself, smoothing the sides of her robe with her palms, "Composure"

She had a plan. A very clear plan almost scripted for the big screen. And entrance if you will to raise Monica's lust to a frenzy.

Tracy suddenly felt drunk with the powers of seduction.


	3. The Hourglass is Empty

Chapter 3

The Hourglass Is Empty

Her objective firmly in check, though her body was competing, Tracy rounds the corner and peers into the living room.

Monica has a glass fast pressed to tight lips, her shirt gripped closed in the opposite hand, and she is mid swallow.

This caused a pleasant smile to creep across the lioness's mouth, as if the prey was discovered at the water hole.

Tracy regains a straight face.

"Apparently I left my purse at the church" Tracy said, in a much ado about nothing way, as she strolls into the room, that first shook, then pissed Monica off, but she would be damned if she showed her need.

They were back at some bizarre metaphorical square one, as if some vile joking hand just flipped the hourglass back over.

Ah this is how it will be, Monica thought to herself, and how could she expect anything less.

"Did you make sure no one took anything out of it? "

Monica said with dry sarcasm that straightened Tracy's spine.

(ooo she is ready to go rounds isn't she)

"It was left in a _**CHURCH**_"

The annunciation on the second CH was sharp, bitchy, and flat, eyebrow cocked, her posture was ridged, hand on her hip.

Tracy scanned Monica's body, and held her urge to "CALL bullshit"

Cat and mouse was all they knew, and the Cat always wins, so why not play?

"You going to fix me one or should I find Alice?"

Monica placed both hands flat on the bar cart. She kept her stare on the ice bucket, and didn't move.

Her breath was deep and forcibly paced. This had also caused Monica to release the button less nightshirt she clutched closed moments ago.

Tracy sees this fight. Oh no, do not think for a second that it wasn't a struggle on both ends, Tracy has always been a more controlled creature.

"This is why I played barmaid, normal to you or not, before…"

_It's so not the game, it's the warmth of the win, she thinks silently, as she reaches for that glass that green flagged all this again_,

"It is obviously beyond your skills right now"

Oh Tracy felt powerful, like the woman behind the mirrored shades at the million dollar poker table with a Royal Flush

Just when she walked up to grab the crystal decanter, rake in her chips as it were, Monica reached out and grabbed her wrist.

She turned her gaze to Tracy, and said nothing. Both froze. For the briefest of moments, Tracy trembled.

Monica was serious.

Dead serious.

"You want to mock your brother? My marriage? My life? You want to rule the roost, and control the minions, and deal the cards go ahead Tracy,. go right ahead"

She managed to jerk that wrist close to her, and Monica could feel Tracy's pulse pound against her fingers.

"But do NOT, fuck with me, not here, not now, because I will forget in a heartbeat that you ever existed"

She tugged Tracy even closer.

"Am I making myself clear?" she spat, eyes darting over Tracy's immaculate sculpted face.

Oh yes she was strong, and her conviction was hardly half hearted, but it screamed of want, a beautiful ruse of want, hidden well, to the layperson, behind a veil of fear.

Tracy blinked, and then blinked again. She didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or clap. With a pull back, met by formidable resistance, Tracy took her best approach.

With a whip of her hair to the side, an Alpha squaring of shoulders, and sheer body language, she set into action all she could to regain the upper hand, even as she felt her own desire soaking through silk, slicking the inside of her thighs.

"Monica, Monica, Monica…how does someone go about forgetting someone they have worn like a second skin?"

Tracy was just dripping with sensual venom.

"Tell me honey, how many times did you try _frantically_to forget I existed?"

The ball was easing back into Tracy's court, and Monica found it hard to breath.

All bets were off.

"How many times, after you and I have done this, this "thing" these tiffs, the useless little charades that we do, have you tried to push me from your mind?"

Tracy's eyes were ablaze. Her voice dropped to a low hiss.

"How many times have you stormed out of this room, and dropped in a frustrated heap on your bed, your sanctimonious married bed, behind a locked door, and found yourself slipping your hand into your ever so faithful panties, wishing like hell it was _**my**_ hand, because you _**really**_ needed to forget I existed?"

Monica's shaking was uncontrollable, pure lust, and blind rage are heavy, heavy elixirs to mix and Monica truly believed if something didn't give soon, she'd simple die.

"BUT, my dear, if you feel that strongly,"

She brought her body closer, playing Monica's pull forward, to a slack armed distance

"That _deeply_" she added with a smoky low purr. Her words loose, and methodical, her eyes, pupils huge, scanning Monica up, and down

"If this is just some momentary lapse of reason," she pulls her hand back, though Monica holds fast to her wrist.

"Then walk away my queen of conviction, seamstress of the moral fabric, because this is the grown up playground"

Monica did not budge, her jaw hurt from clenching it, she was pushed to the precipice.

"Here's your chance sweetie, turn tail and run, or cut the shit, right here, and right now"

Tracy closes the gap, toe to toe they stand, and they both know this just can't keep up.

"What's it going to be Monica?"


	4. Chapter 4 A Common Ground

Chapter 4

The Dam is Broken

Monica wavers; Tracy takes her free hand, and tucks Monica's hair behind her ear, then trails it down her face, brushing a thumb over slightly parted lips, across her throat and onward south. Curling her fingers between the seam of Monica's shirt, and her body, she follows the hem down, feeling the tiny frayed knots where buttons once lived.

She hears Monica swallow, and feels her stomach seize as the back of her knuckles passed over it. A slight deviation of direction as she runs out of nightshirt fabric, leads Tracy's hand to the elastic top of Monica's PJ bottoms.

"Tracy" Monica stammers at a cracked whisper, almost a plea, all resistance crumbling.

Her grip involuntarily tightens, almost painfully, on Tracy's other wrist. Tracy audibly sucks a quick breath of air in through her teeth, and continues her relentless path

It takes Monica more then a second to realize Tracy has been moving forward, forcing her backward toward the leather couch.

"Last chance Monica"

Tracy coaxes breathlessly, and then adds a cruel undertone, that Monica has no way of knowing she doesn't really mean.

"Because I could be just as happy with one last drink and a hot bath" she winks

It's just her way. It's the last thorn to prick you after caressing the stem. It doesn't make the rose smell any less sweet. It's pure defense to hide a need possibly bigger then even Monica's.

The back of Monica's legs hit the edge of the sofa, and she almost stumbles backwards. This fumble causes her, much to Tracy's delight, to release her wrist.

She had been holding onto the band of Monica's pants with her free hand, and now, as they are stopped here, face to face, she finds Monica's breast once more, cupping it at first, a gentle squeeze causing a sigh to escape from her conquest.

"Hmmmm, this is where I left off, isn't it" she drips at a whisper.

Then marveling again at the hardness of her nipple, she slips it between her forefinger and thumb. Tracy then brings her other hand down to a shaky thigh. With an upward sweep, she rakes her nails hard. Oh how she wants to move to devour her, right now, but she has to pace this. You don't rush a fine Scotch. 30 year old single malt is a work of art. Taking Monica will be too.

Monica reaches and catches Tracy's chiseled jaw in her hand. Her thoughts are a blur, and there is no more protesting.

She cocks Tracy's head back, and is met will little resistance, and descends on her throat.

Monica's head swims with the scent of her as she breaches the gap. Her other hand finds a more than flimsy robe and shoves the cascading fabric aside, and enters near the beginning of Tracy's ribs. Unlike herself, Tracy is more flesh then clothes, and this is a pleasant discovery. She finds herself clutching, holding on for dear life as if this was an apparition about to vanish.

She closes a hot mouth on Tracy's pulse, and rakes her teeth on tight skin as she sucks and draws. She trails her hand down to the small of Tracy's spine. Tracy pops to attention with a throaty moan, which was obviously not supposed to be heard.

_My god, I've created a monster, a sweet, carnal, starving monster_, Tracy thinks to herself, as her knees feel as though they will buckle. Her hands continue their delicious assault on Monica's breasts, evoking the most sensual sounds from her prey.

With a deft turn of her head, and shrug down of her shoulder her cheek brushes just close enough to encourage Monica to find her mouth again and Monica doesn't miss a beat in slipping her hand, from jaw, to the back of Tracy's head.

This kiss is all encompassing; their tongues are slick, warm, and loose, unlike the push for dominance before. It is all the surrender Monica has and all that Tracy will ever allow. These women earned this, running on adrenaline and pure instinct, the truth that this is a first for both of them, seems very far away.

One last nudge and Monica has no choice but to sit, as Tracy bends and follows her descent, even though she remains standing, until the kiss breaks. Tracy's hands are forced to stop their play on Monica's skin. She is about to bring herself down to Monica's level, then she stops. She takes a second to stare, and stare hard into Monica's eyes, and she stares back with equal intensity. Everything that need be said is exchanged without words.

Monica's skin is flushed, and glistening, her breathing heavy. Tracy is just gloating inside, truly basking in the gloriously disheveled woman sitting in front of her. She reaches down and brushes the hair from Monica's forehead.

Monica is in the most amazing position to look up Tracy's body, bra-less, but black lace silken panties. She can see quivers dance across Tracy's stomach no matter how hard she tries to act indifferent and controlled.

She scoots to the edge of the couch, and reaches forward, into Tracy's robe, and runs her hands around to the back of Tracy's thighs. This opens the robe just far enough to expose Tracy's small, but pert breasts, a glimmer of sweat enhances their curves. Monica moves her hands up to a firm, backside, exposed, save for a small line of fabric nestled between each cheek, and a slight band that continues around her small waist. She intertwines this in her fingers.

Tracy feels dizzy and hot, and also reacts like someone about to lose their leverage. She draws her fingers through the top of Monica's hair, to the back of her head and tugs slightly with a handful, forcing Monica to look up. She is met by a very serious look.

"Whatever you are about to do, you know there is no turning back don't you?"

Tracy reveals a lot of herself in the delivery of that sentence. It is spoken clear and clean, yet not harsh, not demanding, not contrived. It was an allowance for Monica to stop, if that is what her real desire was. She isn't sure what she expected of this, but she has been surprised at every turn by Monica's fight, and hunger, and conviction.

She was also more surprised at her own feelings. How badly she wanted this, needed this, how afraid she was that Monica would stop at any second, and of the void that would follow. Tracy also knew without a doubt she would die before admitting that out loud. She lets her grip loose on Monica's hair, and moves her hand to her cheek.

"You know this changes everything?" Tracy continues

"Yes Tracy, I am counting on that" Monica replies before she pulls Tracy to her


	5. The Mask Crumbles

The Mask Crumbles.

Monica leans in, and brushes the tip of her nose over very warm skin. She closes her eyes, and breaths deep before letting her mouth settle in a lip parted kiss just below Tracy's navel. She is intoxicated with the softness, and scent of this steely woman before her.

Monica drew her tongue slowly from the top of Tracy's panty line to her belly button, before following its slight dip inside.

Tracy's eyes are half lidded, and heavy. She glances down herself, and is just beautifully riveted at how Monica looks as she licks and kisses her stomach.

Of all the men Tracy has had, some out of need, some out of amusement, nothing has ever felt like this. And it's only begun.

Monica's hands close in a tight, kneading fashion on Tracy's ass, pulling her forward and almost off balance, and then moving to her sides. She traces down the outside of firm thighs, loving how she makes Tracy shudder. Her mouth doesn't quit its decadent exploration, the give of skin on the top of her hip, to the harness of her lower ribs.

Tracy sinks her fingers into golden locks, and closes her eyes. She lets herself enjoy this. She thinks to herself that this is how canvas must feel when a brush and paint are applied with a devoted promise of creating art. She also resigns to herself that whatever she gets from Monica, she is bound and determined to return it 10 fold. Her robe slips absently off one shoulder, and this causes Monica to look up again.

She really takes in this image. Tracy, swaying, eyes closed, bare shoulder, nipples erect, skin glistening with anticipatory dew. She blazed this picture into her mind, as she brings one hand brutally slow around from behind, across the top of one thigh, to the inside of the opposite. She feels the muscle in Tracy's leg ripple, her breath catch, and her nails graze Monica's scalp in a sonata of touch.

Bringing her hand upward, then down, trickling her fingertips behind Tracy's knee, results in a sensual snicker, at its erotic, yet ticklish sensation. She heads upwards again. Going as far as she can, before Tracy has to open her legs wider, to allow the path to continue that last inch or so, Monica stops just at the most crucial spot.

Curving her hand back between trembling thighs, and then forward again not quite touching the apex, she can still feel Tracy is scalding, and damp. Her other hand is now slipping the side of her thong down her hip.

One more pass, and she draws the side of her hand, up tight to her. Tracy inhales hard; with a surprised, delicious sound. Monica's head swims. She is staggered at how soft, swollen, and wet Tracy is. The heat coming from her sex was intense. She recalls herself feeling this way, as she fantasized about moments just like this.

She leans in after looking up once more. Tracy's head was back, and her skin was ruddy with desire. She kisses just above her hairline, as she pulls one side of panties down, continuing to run her hand against Tracy. Forward barely brushing, and pulling back, nestled deeper, tighter parting her labia, with the top of index finger, stopping at the crook where her thumb meets, with more pressure against silk that is increasingly wet. She moves her hand away for just a moment, and that locks Tracy up ridged.

"Monica' if you stop now, I'll kill you where you sit. I swear on my life, there will be no forgiveness" Tracy states', trying to not sound like a plea, in-between broken groans, and staggered breath.

"No, no, not a chance Tracy. This is just rather limiting, the couch, like we are." She tries to reassure her, placing her hands back on bare hips." There is nothing about this I am taking lightly Tracy, nothing"

"Monica, I am not fooling around here…" Tracy continues, not realizing the desperate undertone to her cracking voice.

Monica has stripped this creature down further then possibly anyone. Monica's wonders if Tracy has a clue what a heady, nerve wracking, privilege she is achingly aware that it is. In spite of all the bickering, cruel remarks, and rounds they have ever gone, and will surely go through forever, Monica never has, and never will see Tracy as weak or this as a casual fling. If anything she will always see her from here on as more layered, more beautiful, more human.

She begins to stand, hands gliding up her back, laying kisses up Tracy's sweltering body as she goes. She hesitates at pert breasts, and draws Tracy's nipple into her mouth, sliding her hand, palm up between Tracy's legs once more before coming up face to face. Tracy feels utterly faint.

"Can we please take this out of the den?" Monica asks against Tracy's mouth, "there is so much I want to do to you, and I do not want to do it here"

Tracy has never let herself crash like this. Not with anyone. Maybe deep down, she couldn't allow that with anyone not close to being an equal in stature, articulation, and standing. Of all past lovers, she gave them each a piece here and there, and that was simply because there were other motivations. She had faked orgasms, whispered lies. She had sex for revenge and redemption, money and power. But this, this with Monica had no agenda's behind it. No side tracks, no strategy to be played out. This was the most honest encounter she may have ever had.

They kiss again, Tracy brings her hands up to Monica's face.

"Follow me" she says, and takes Monica's hand, and leads her through the French doors, across the courtyard, to the guest house.


	6. The Truth of Release

Tracy's heart races as they approach the Gatehouse, leading the way, Monica in tow, they enter. Tracy lets Monica pass, and she turns towards the door to close and lock it. Monica comes up behind her, not allowing Tracy to turn and face her. Pressed hard and fast, she pulls Tracy's hair aside, and closes a hungry mouth on the nape of her neck.

"Monica, I thought…" Tracy stammers and tries to turn around. Monica presses tighter her hands reach around front and start to pull Tracy's robe open, then off her shoulders.

"Shhhhh" she whispers against warm skin, "Don't think Tracy, not now" as her lips find every inch of flesh across shoulders, over her spine, as the robe slips down. Tracy plants her hands against the door, which hangs the robe up in the crooks of her elbows, stopping it.

"What the hell Monica, why didn't we just stay where..." Tracy starts, and is stopped mid sentence. The frustration in Monica is evident, as she pushes her body against her with more force; a grunt comes from Tracy, as the door meets the front of her body, causing a rather shocking sensation of cold metal against bare breasts.

Tracy has no say in anything that is happening in this disadvantaged position. It, on one hand makes her want to fight, and fight viciously. She feels trapped, like a caged animal. She wants to force Monica back, and turn around, and remind her in a harsh, lesson of dominance whom is really the "boss" here. On the other, she is frighteningly curious how far Monica will go.

She gets a rather clear answer as Monica takes her arms and forces them down, pulling the robe past her hands and letting it fall to the floor. She clasps Tracy's wrists, and raises them up over Tracy's head and forces them to the door. Monica is high with lust at this point. She is on the mission of her life it seems, to take every second of want from 30 years past, and unleash it all on Tracy's body. She continues to lay kisses, over Tracy's back and she is surprised at how much allowance she has given her in this current position.

"Don't you move Tracy" she states very matter of fact. Tracy resists at first, and Monica is thrilled by this. She wants her so deeply, but she doesn't want it to be easy, as that would not be true to Tracy's nature.

"Ooo you have got to be fucking kidding me," She laughs, low, in an attempt to sound confident, as she pushes back, and gets nowhere. Her hair in her face, she can't even see, her robe in a pile, naked other then the small piece of silk between her quaking legs.

"God damn you Monica" she curses, the statement comes out irritated and unsure. A tear forms, and she prays to every God she has ever heard of that Monica doesn't see it.

She has never felt so vulnerable, and it pisses her off to no end because no matter how she wants to struggle, to regain control, her body likes this, it needs this, it is simply starving to death to be broken.

"You are going to get yours, you just better believe that" She cracks through clenched teeth.

Monica crosses Tracy's hands, and holds them both in one of hers. This frees one arm to shake the sleeve of her top off. She switches, and the other arm is free. She leans her weight into Tracy, and can't help but feeling almost faint when skin meets skin.

Monica slides her PJ bottoms off, and kicks them aside.

She has to take pause in Tracy's black thong, and her white. Good girl, bad girl down to the littlest detail.

She finds herself grinding slow against Tracy. It's dizzy and instinctive. Her nipples have never been this sensitive, and just the brushing against Tracy's back is almost too much to take.

She releases Tracy's wrists, and to her satisfaction, Tracy's keeps them where they are.

As she leans back into Monica, her hands flat on the door, Monica encircles her waist. A cascade of touch plays up and down Tracy's stomach. Her body is drawn tight as her hands remain up.

Tracy fills her lungs and drops her head forward. She is just awash in new sensations, new truths, and new wonders. She thrills in seeing Monica trace her flesh. Across ribs, over her belly which causes her to shiver.

Female hands, the strong, yet soft, precise hands of a surgeon cover her breasts. She is used to the touch of men. Rough, calloused, over eager, and driven by the end of the journey, not the ride itself. She realizes for the first time, that she never really enjoyed being touched like that, hurried and detached. This is how a woman should be taken.

She is mesmerized with Monica's heated breath on her shoulders. She absently sets her stance a little wider, and this is noted as Monica leaves one breast in a pursuit further south.

Tracy watches in anxious fascination. This beautiful hand, grazes manicured nails first around her navel, causing a hum to leave her body through her nose. Her breathing increases its pace to a near pant as that hand continues its descent.

Monica can feel Tracy's heart beating furiously through her back, matching her own. She sees the hair clinging in damp tendrils to Tracy's neck. Having her like this is very heavy medicine. It is strangely humbling at the same time. She knows no one has ever seen or touched her this way, and knows this is a gift beyond reason that Tracy is succumbing like this.

In a meticulously synchronized set of movements, a mouth closes hard on a firm shoulder, a breast is cupped tightly, and she slips her hand into the front of Tracy's panties, and in one deft move parts soaked lips, and finds her clit.

Tracy feels like she will collapse as a broken moan leaves her body in a sound she didn't know lived inside her. She drops her head back onto Monica's shoulder, her hands fight to grip the flat door, and her knees practically give way.

"My god Monica, what are you doing to me" she says at near hyperventilation.

The relentless pace continues. Monica slides in firm circles over Tracy's sensitive nub, then dips closer to her opening, and back. She has her mouth by Tracy's ear; cheek to cheek almost, as her other hand pinches and toys with aching nipple.

"What do you want Tracy" Monica whispers, almost just as breathless, their bodies' slick, moving slow and finding their pace.

Tracy leaves one hand above her, and brings her other arm down, elbow bent, to place a hand on the back of Monica's head.

Tracy's thoughts are out of her control, droplets of sweat trickle down her temples, her thighs burn and ache as she moves with Monica's hand. What is she to say? The words are there and she is more afraid to hear them depart her, then to actually mean them.

She turns her head, and wants Monica's lips again. She wants that circle of touch complete, and she knows if embroiled in a sinking deep kiss, Monica cannot ask the impossible of her again. But she is denied. Not because Monica has no desire to feel her tongue swirl with Tracy's again, but she feels this is a crucial place and time.

There are ways she wants Tracy, she wanted deeply to taste her, to drink her in, to kiss the rainfall of lust from between her legs, but she just could not stop this right now how it was playing out. She had the rest of her life to experience that, but for now, this is how it should be, and Tracy has to give in 100. She has to speak it for it to be done.

Monica slows the glide of her fingers, the copious tears of Tracy's soul coating them. This is agony to her. She grinds her teeth, and every breath is an audible struggle.

She finds Monica's stare, and to Monica, her eyes had never been so blue, other worldly, intoxicated, ocean blue. Her hair clung to her face, her throat, in damp wisps. Her mouth with parted lips was in the most beautiful silent plea.

"Tracy, tell me, c'mon, you can tell me" and she began to move on Tracy even slower.

It is truth be told that the sounds of crying and laughter, pleasure and pain are almost indiscernible if they occur without visual prompts. Tracy's level of pleasure had reduced her words to the sound of weeping, though there was no sadness here. This was waking up from a lifelong slumber.

This was her epiphany, this was the first time the gilded cage was about to disintegrate around her, and freedom would be defined.

Tracy closed her eyes, and then opened them once more, not a breath left her without being marked by the sound of want. Her hand was tangled in Monica's long hair, she looked at her, and her body was hopelessly trying to move against Monica's fingers to make up for the motion being slowed down. It was now or never.

Monica fought a gasp as she saw the truth well up in Tracy's eyes. There was the briefest moment of silence between whimpered breaths. Tears spilled over, and down her cheeks, Tracy spoke 3 words.

"Set me free"

Monica's mouth crushes Tracy's, and her fury of play resumes on Tracy's aching sex. Their movements begin to merge, Monica is tune to every sound, every muscle, and she finds herself mentally counting down. The word "please" is picked up between throws of sheer abandon. She feels Tracy begin to solid up, hears her breath seize and catch.

Monica passes one harder swirl over Tracy's clit, and then, without warning, slides two fingers hard and deep inside. Tracy sucks in all the air that her lungs can hold in a shocking sweet song.

That is the push over the precipice. The heavens open, and Tracy is falling. From her heels to her head, the feeling washes over her in a flourish of heat. She cries out again and again in a sound she has never made before. Monica matches each plea with a thrust into her. The orgasm crashes and crashes like an impossible wave beating the shore.

Monica is supporting Tracy's weight, as she is leaning hard into her, and she marvels at her body taking this without falling apart. She is locked tight around relentless fingers, moving down; impaling herself mercilessly to Monica's every movement up and in. Tracy Quartermaine has finally gotten what she deserves.

As the sensation ebbs, Tracy's strength is simply gone. This was the marathon of her life. She begins to slump, as if about to pass out. Monica eases her to the floor. Kneeling behind her still, Tracy rests her head against the cold steel door. Monica carefully withdrawals her fingers from Tracy's body which causes a shock and groan to escape her exhausted form. Her body trembles involuntarily.

She turns abruptly towards Monica, and as if a lost woman found, she slips into Monica's arms, burying her face in her neck, and completes the vulnerable full circle moment as the tears mix with sweat, and trail down Monica's shoulder.

Monica holds her like a piece of delicate crystal. This woman of power, and prestige, of strength and honor, has never been more beautifully human. Tracy is beside herself and whole at the same time. This is an absolute first.

Monica is in awe, as she feels Tracy's body regrouping, and a mouth begins to kiss her neck.


	7. Transition

Monica has been so focused on Tracy until this second, that she lost track of her own physical need. Like being slammed back into herself from an out of body experience, she is suddenly very aware of everything from the trickle of Tracy's sweat on her heated skin, to the very blood in her veins. 

Heightened and hypersensitive, Tracy's kisses on her neck combined with the breath from her nose is a mixture of touch, and temperature beyond definition. Even the scents of the moment are amplified, the heady, rounded tones of sex, and perfume, Bergamont, and Jasmine, Gardenia, and Vanilla, mixed with the smell of new rain creeping through a cracked window.

On their knees, in full embrace, Monica shudders as Tracy draws her earlobe between lips, tracing its shape with the tip of her tongue. Monica pulls back just enough to take Tracy's face in her hands, brushing her slick bangs off of a damp brow.

"Are you OK?" Monica asks with a nurturing, yet nervous tone, even as Tracy is still trying to regain contact with Monica's flesh, her hands already snaking around Monica's waist, trying to re close the gap. 

She marvels at Tracy's appearance. Her pupils are large black islands in a tumultuous ocean of lapis, her skin moist, glistening, and rosy. She looks 20 years younger, and suddenly wonderfully treacherous. Thunder rolls in the distance.

Tracy knows something in her as irrevocably shifted. She is changed on the inside, like a lake that a pebble has been tossed into. The ripples on the surface are gone, no one would ever guess as they walked by, but something new resides in its depths. 

Even so, she does not want to discuss it. It is truly beyond words. She wants to share it, top it, and cause it to ring clear as a bell in Monica now. She would easily die before she let that Monica had become her savior.

"I believe this isn't about me anymore honey" Tracy says at a low simmer, like a Phoenix from the ashes rising stronger and fiercer. 

She starts to stand, albeit she won't let on how her legs are still shaky. She runs her fingers through her own hair, slicking in back from her face, and stretches like she just awoke from a thousand year sleep. Her evident satisfaction and rejuvenation excited Monica to the core. She extends a hand to Monica, and pulls her to her feet noticing the sly smile painting her face.

She runs her hand up Monica's damp throat, then around her neck, under her hair, and back.

"You look very, very proud of yourself" she says with a grin, cocking her finger under Monica's chin, before capturing her mouth in a sinking kiss. Arms encompass Tracy's body. Monica loves the feel of her like this. Nude, moist, muscles taught, attitude loose.

She desperately wants to get out of the entranceway, and somewhere more comfortable.

The anticipation was thick, the rain began a steady drone on the window panes, and the sky crackled sharply, causing both women to startle. Tracy realized that the squall was matching her mood. Monica was equally aware.

They stand before each other, as the storm rattles the house again, and the lights flicker.

Tracy has known for many years, from pure observation, that a decent thunderstorm always brought Monica's nerves closer to the surface. How pleasing this change of the weather is to Tracy, as she can see plainly that Monica couldn't be anything less than raw right now.

She slithers out of Monica's arms, and takes a few backward steps. This leaves herself in full view of Monica. Looping the straps of her undies in her thumbs, Tracy slides them down her thighs, seductive and slow, stopping just above her knees. 

Monica swallows hard, her mouth dry as sand, as she watches Tracy turn around, and just with that action, the panties drop to the floor, and she casually steps out of them and continues towards the bedroom.

The sky groans again in its decadent build. Tracy turns back, stopping right in the doorway. The lights dim again.

"I really think now would be a good time to unglue your feet from the floor" she states, beckoning with a tilt of her head.

Monica laughs a brief very nervous giggle. 

Tracy is like a jewel with a sin hidden inside, beautiful to behold, but still very dangerous to possess. 

This Tracy before her, naked, hungrier and renewed, is a result of her actions, her lust. That being said, she realizes she has created a whole new predator.

It was hard to move; she thought to herself, Tracy disappeared into the room. She took not but one step and the lights faded and died a split second following another clap of thunder. 

An instinctual, frightened squeak slipped out, as she was cast into darkness. Monica scanned the black room with her eyes, trying almost desperately to adjust them. She was familiar enough with the lay of the room, to manage a few more steps. And orange flick, then another, illuminates the doorway of the bedroom, once more, then a faint continual amber glow. 

She turns the corner, and sees her, standing at the foot of the bed, a single candle on the nightstand. Monica felt the earth shift under her feet, as the sound of her own heart rendered the storm mute, pounding in her ears. 

This was a vision, a devastating image beyond her wildest fantasies that Tracy always managed to invade. Hair back from her face, intermittent blue white flashes of lightning lend a sharp contrast to already razor like features, and pale her eyes. 

Tracy's every curve and contour awash in gold and shadows. The glitter of sweat like liquid fire on tight skin, the dark triangle between her legs, the shadow of erect nipples was almost more then Monica could process.

She suddenly felt more defenseless, then ever before in her life. That was not a bad thing.

Tracy began a catlike crawl onto the crisp white bedspread, stopping dead center, coming upright onto her knees. She pats the spot in front of her.

"You're not afraid of the dark are you Monica?" she says oozing with sarcasm

Monica steps to the edge of the bed. Trying to recoup her confidence was an epic tug of war with her senses.

The stark contrast of vulnerable, to powerful, is gripping to Monica as she hesitates. Is this the woman before her, beckoning and in control, which pleaded, crested, and cried in her arms not so long ago?

Yes, magnificently yes. Tracy is confounding, and all encompassing. Monica has never wanted to surrender more as she starts to climb onto the bed.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Monica begins to creep up onto the bed, Tracy's stare is heavy, and misses nothing.

"Wait" she says, in a disapproving tone wagging a finger side to side

"What could _**possibly**_ be the problem Tracy?" Monica quips back, a tad sarcastic, one knee perched on the beds edge.

Tracy clears her throat and points.

Monica brings her foot back to the floor, and looks first over her shoulder, then around the dim room, hands out to her sides in animated question. Had anything even been remiss, she would have never seen it in this lighting. This is frustrating at best. Monica's need has begun to dance on the razor edge. This delay, though she expected nothing less from Tracy, the prolonged payback as it where, was certainly annoying. Her legs began to shake.

"What!" she blurts

Tracy brings her hands over her own flat stomach, past her navel; they separate direction, one hand one hip, then the other. Monica swallows hard, her eyes glassy with hunger as she observes Tracy caressing herself.

After a slow teasing pass up and down her hips, she dips a hand between her own legs, and eases it back and forth. Lightning crashes on queue as if the storm itself is watching, and needed a better view.

Monica is beside herself, and begins to climb back up on the bed, and is stopped when Tracy ceases with a huff and a roll of her eyes.

"Will you stop toying with me? Monica bites.

The tone is close to anguish. She understands the weight of what she has given Tracy. She also understands the nature of the beast before her, and not for one second expected violins and angel's song in the throws of reciprocation. But this was already more then she could take.

Tracy extends herself on hands and knees towards Monica. She needs only to crawl a few paces, and she stops in front of the trembling woman.

"I was NOT toying with you!" she slips her fingers into the front of Monica's panties, pulls back and releases with a slight snap, looking at her with cocked eyebrow.

"I was just testing if you brushed up on your charades handbook"

The first wave of emotion hits Monica, foolishness. The second is irritation. The same that Tracy always brings out with in her. It is tight, and all consuming, and dripping with sexual tension.

"Fine" she snaps, as she slips the panties down, and stands up again, placing her hands flat on the bed, leaning mere inches from Tracy's face.

"Is there a chapter in the Tracy and Monica fucking handbook that is supposed to illustrate what happens next, or do you think you can wing it?"

"I think we are beyond "winging it" my friend, Tracy answers, A delicious ire rises as she comes back up to her knees.

She hoped Monica would let her be herself through this, not that she really had a choice honestly, she had not disappointed by any stretch so far.

Monica reaches for her face, and Tracy pushes her hand away, gently, yet with significance. Monica glares thunder sound, low, and menacing. She tries again, and is met the same way. The urge to snap back verbally is overwhelming.

Getting a clear bead on what Tracy intended would have been more of a mystery if not for a sly grin, and gleaming eyes made clear in a burst of white through parted blinds. Tracy needs to show a new definition of desire, without the desperate cloying feel of need, even if that is exactly what it is.

Tracy moves back, leaving a tempting space right in front of her again. This is no accident. It is all another piece of the biggest picture in these women's lives. She is on a course to show gratitude without showing weakness.

The storm continues its melodic song, the rain a steady metronome on thin glass, and wooden shutters. As the wind builds, it causes a haunting whistle though the gap in the French doors.

Monica leans towards Tracy, wanting her kiss again; as she is convinced it is the sustenance her soul has craved forever. Tracy still stops her not an inch from her mouth, with a hand planted just below her throat.

She manages to push forward, and finally succeed getting onto the bed; still Tracy holds her fast, allowing just the tips of their noses to brush, and then retreats, never once closing her eyes. Monica jumps as the storm delivers it's most abrupt clap thus far.

"It's only thunder Monica" Tracy says against parted lips, gliding her tongue tip teasingly along the bottom one while shifting her weight towards her. Monica has absolutely no choice but to follow Tracy's subtle play of dominance, and lay back against stacked pillows, extending her legs before her.

The wind sings its ghostly song, the play of light on Tracy's features is fantastic, one side glows warm orange from the nearby candle, the other shocks almost white as the lightning spark fills the room again.

This is so befitting the woman before her. Tracy has worn many faces, mother, sister, friend and foe. She has epitomized shrewdness and sensuality like a double edged sword. Now she was the very icon of fire and ice.

Tracy Quartermaine the daughter of the devil himself, with singed wings and a red hot halo.

Monica suddenly feels guarded. She absently covers her breasts with her hands, her legs draw up and touch at the knees, propped against the pillows, she is ever so slightly shy of horizontal.

Tracy slides beside her, leaning on one arm, she looks Monica over.

"I am more then a bit certain, it's not the storm scaring you Monica" Tracy states low and pleased as she circles Monica's bellybutton with a lazy finger, causing tingles to swarm in her stomach.

There was never a deeper truth spoken. It was not cocky, nor conceited like a moment ago. It was definitely painted with a coat of concern, which was an emotion in it's infancy for Tracy to express towards Monica. This was a whole new place for both women, especially Tracy.

This was fear coursing in Monica's veins. It fought a heated battle with lust as it pumped steady. Tracy had known in the very recent past that same sensation. Fear of discovering ones self. Fear of change, even if positive and long sought after.

Fear of physical surrender kicking open the doors to spiritual comfort.

Tracy can't help but wonder to herself, as she runs her hand over Monica's trembling thigh, towards her clasped knees, would there have been such juxtaposition had Monica not touched her very soul?

No, she would have taken this time to tear Monica apart. This would have been sheer subjugation had it simply been about sex.

It would have been quintessential Tracy, causing Monica to beg for relief, to twist this into another infamous power play. If winning meant Monica's pride being crushed, or her heart being broken, then it would have been worth it. That is how she always envisioned this carrying out, but reality was a different matter.

Tracy watches her hand cast quivering shadows in the candlelight. She draws herself closer beside Monica, cocked on her elbow. She places her hand on Monica's, and finds her eyes.

She laces her fingers with Monica's, and eases her hand away from the flesh she is guarding. After a reassuring squeeze she lets go, returning her touch to Monica's raised thigh, easing it down from its bent position with just a firm pressure.

She leans in and kisses under the curve of Monica's breast, sighing at how soft her skin is. She peppered more around, but not yet touching the responsive center that was hardening. Her hand traces the side of Monica's neck, lilting her thumb across her jaw line. She feels her swallow, her pulse rapidly beating just below her moist skin.

Lightning cast the room into a kaleidoscope of blue angles and pinstripes. Gooseflesh sweeps over Monica, her shuddering ebbs and flows with every breath.

Tracy bends a knee, draping her own thigh tentatively over Monica's, fingertips play down a blushing cheek, to trembling lips, as she scoots over further, bringing them face to face for a moment.

Monica looks at Tracy, beyond the rough exterior, beyond the formidable antagonist she always knew, and into her depth. Tracy has always been surrounded in barb wire, broken glass, land mines and locked gates. Anyone who got past any of those obstacles was certainly rare. To be where she was, in the hands, at the mercy of this unbridled, carnal beauty, was a gift to not take lightly.

Tracy smiles to herself wickedly. She could see the realizations one by one pass through Monica's psyche, illustrated with every anticipatory tremor

Monica, in turn, let her mind wrap around everything. The sound of Tracy breathing, the scent of her skin, mixed with the wind the crept thru the cracks of doors, and windows. The taste of her fingertips as she drew each one offered into her mouth, sucking, and teasing, as Tracy traced her lips. To Monica there was no sound on earth like the sweet sigh that escapes a hardened woman with a tender soul. The feel of Tracy shifting her position, delighted and surprised.

Thunder resonates with Monica's heart, as she lowers other her leg, and brings a hand up to Tracy's face, tracing a thumb from her eyebrow, down a perfect cheekbone, back to sensitive ear. The reality that Tracy was still giving, even now, is staggering. She welcomes her with open arms, and opened legs, though Tracy only first sits astride one thigh. This is heavenly. Her body is perfect. She can feel that river of tears from Tracy's soul, hot, and slick where she is straddled.

Monica weaves her free hand around the arched small of Tracy's back. A low moan, almost a purr, emits from Tracy as this contact reawakens her own arousal.

Tracy kisses the crook of Monica's shoulder, deep, caressing it with her tongue, suckling, and nipping. Her hair falls around Monica's face like a silken veil, as she finds Monica's warm, eager, mouth for a deep exploring kiss. Tracy brings herself up. She plants both hands on either side of Monica's shoulders, and eases her quad tight against Monica's ever conceding femininity.

Tracy's mind reels when the contact is made. It is a waltz of reaction. Monica's body rises slightly, and her head drops back into pillows with a moan. Tracy grinds slowly between soaked thighs. Monica's throat is tight, she brings once hand to her forehead moving her bangs, eyes heavy lidded, and barely open. She holds Tracy fast with the other, tight against the small of her spine. Her chin pointed towards the ceiling in the consummate gesture of acquiescence.

Tracy looks down at her prey. Sweat dapples her face and chest in a patina of surrender.

Monica draws her thigh equally tight into Tracy, evoking a growl before she closes her mouth hard against Monica's salty, sweet, neck, just below her ear.

Monica brings one hand to the back of Tracy's head, lacing fingers in soaked tresses and sinking manicured talons of the other into the small of her back, pulling her snugly between ever parting legs.

Tracy bites down on sensitive flesh, drawing hard in retort to the erotic sting of nails raking skin, a carnal breath from her nose like an animal, sucking hard, surely branding her with a fierce red mark.

A guttural "_Fuck_" cracks from Monica as she clings to Tracy. Without missing a beat, she moves from Monica's throat, and begins to kiss across Monica's collarbone, then her sternum. Back arched, elbows bent, she is the picture of seductive prowess. She finds Monica's mouth again.

That is something akin to air for them both at this point. Monica's body involuntarily quakes as Tracy's kisses her slow, deliberate, deep, her tongue warm, gliding over her own deliciously. Tracy brings her other leg over, which was difficult at best to relinquish that contact with Monica's thigh, sinking the kiss to a new depth. Belly to belly, Tracy nestled tight between spread legs. Tracy rocks into her once, then twice, feeling heat and moisture against the triangle of hair above her own aching sex. The kiss breaks just long enough for Tracy to whisper into Monica's ear.

"_You want me to kiss your pussy that way don't you_" she seethes breathy and low causing Monica to raise her hips, expel a wishful moan, and draw her foot up and down the outside of Tracy's calf.

Monica can't find words, she clings to Tracy, she is breathless, and shaky, and implores with her eyes. Tracy widens her thighs, looking down at Monica. This causes Monica to spread almost painfully wide, bending her knees up, she crosses her ankles together for stability and relief. The storm delivers a room shaking roar. Still propped on outstretched arms, Tracy, with a drive of her hips, pushes herself delightfully hard against Monica's scorching apex.

"_Wait, wait, please…Tracy, don't_ ..." Monica stammers with a cracked whimper, and clutches the back of Tracy's neck. Her legs clasp hard around moving hips.

"Say it, Monica" Tracy declares with self assured venom. Monica writhes in frustration beneath her.

"You have to say it honey, or I swear to God, I will stop" Her tone is thick, controlled, and matter of fact.

Monica has bitten down hard enough on her own bottom lip, that she can taste blood. Sweat streams down her temples, her hands clench Tracy's backside, pulling her close as she can, as she raises herself yet again for contact.. Tracy resists the urge to kiss the crimson from her mouth, bringing her face close enough that she could with a mere flick of her tongue and states again.

"Where do you want me Monica" her hips move back and forth, she stares hard into Monica's eyes.

"Where do you need me Monica?" Droplet's of sweat bead, then cascade down Tracy's face, her back, arching, and tensing, equally slick. Monica's body feels everything amplified. Her vulva is swollen, and begins to ache with every move Tracy makes. But it is a fiercely good ache.

Monica is near panic that this will either go on this way forever, or stop abruptly.

She is a choir of breaths, and moans, sighs, and sentiment.

"You know where Tracy, please, don't do this, not like this, you _know_ where" she is on the verge of tears as Tracy dips her head, to take one of her nipples into hot ardent mouth, Monica loudly releases a pained, shocked, groan, and brings her hands up to Tracy's shoulders.

"Tracy, you are evil" she can't contain the desperation, nor hide it. Tracy lets the nipple graze past her teeth as Monica's statement stops her ministration. She comes back up to face Monica.

"Thank you" she grins feral and wild eyed. "I suppose if evil means I want an answer, then evil I am"

Tracy reaches between them, holding herself up on one arm, trying to hide how badly its' shaking is not difficult, as Monica's trembling masks her own.

Monica prays this means contact, that it brings relief, as her need now is beyond reason, beyond anything she has ever known.

Tracy takes her hand and runs it up the outside of Monica's thigh, easing back to have a clear path, stopping her palm just covering her patch of downy hair as she crosses her hand between

"Is it here, Monica?" She draws her hips up, to meet Tracy's hand, she finds herself holding her breath as she looks into Tracy's pale blue eyes, made paler by the lightening washing the room with silver flashes.

"_Right_,( she edges down, fingertips graze her most sensitive area) here?"

The air cranks from Monica's lungs like a bellow stoking a fire, and is cut short into a jaw locking curse, when the touch leaves as quick as it came, and she is left to watch Tracy lick the wetness from an uplifted middle finger.

She didn't know whether to slap Tracy, or curl up and die. Tracy sees this plainly, and is just stunned by Monica's resolve up until now, and in silent awe of it beginning to crumble right before her eyes. It is the Sunday Morning newspaper glare times one thousand. It is the sniping, and fighting, and bitching 10 fold. It is the 30 years come to an agonizing head. Monica hates conceding to this woman now, loathes it, but knows it is the only way Tracy will give her what she has starved for.

Tracy coaxes, "come on baby, all that you want, is yours if you tell me" she bends and kisses her, Monica wraps arms tight around her neck.

She can taste her own essence along with a hint of blood from her bitten lip. Tracy can too, and it is magical, and primitive.

"You want me to devour you?" she speaks breath labored against Monica trembling lips. Thunder rolls in an endless echo. Monica's breathing is so shattered, and labored; she is spinning in light headed splendor. Tracy returns her hand between Monica burning legs.

"Do you belong to me now Monica?" her fingers sink into wet flesh

"Yes, god yes, please, no more teasing Tracy, I can't take it "Monica is quickly losing control of herself. She cannot stop panting, shaking, and clawing at her vanquisher, and that only intensifies Tracy's rule over her body.

"Then _say_ it." Monica gives, and cries out angered, and outplayed

"Yes, Jesus Christ yes_**, fuck me**_ Tracy, **just **fuck me please alright!"

Chills run rampant through Tracy's body,

"Thata girl" she says satisfied, taking a deep breath, and leaning to kiss Monica hard before she begins her descent, Monica pushing her by her shoulders, making no bones about the fact that she gave what Tracy wanted, and now she needed her reward.

Tracy kisses, and nips her way down Monica's body, loving the rise and fall of her stomach, the hardness of her nipples, the softness of the surrounding bosom.

She identified every spot Monica dabbed perfume on, below her navel, above her hip. She brings her arms, one at a time under Monica's thighs, breathing in her scent, while kissing the crook of her leg.

Wrapping her arms around, she lays her hands flat on Monica's stomach, and pulls her close with a tug.

Monica can feel Tracy's heated breath so close, and slinks fingers through Tracy's silken, wet hair, catching one last glance of Tracy looking up the length of her, before a searing tongue dips down to part her lips.

Her hips instantly lift off the bed, as she throws her head back. Tracy solids her grip moving hands down off of stomach, to hold where each thigh meets pelvis. Her tongue is relentless as it slides down to Monica's entryway, and back up, just ever so shy of her clitoris.

Tracy having never experienced this still knew without question this is what she had missed all her life, and could never go without again. She laps at Monica feverishly, painstakingly, and with a thirst she had never knew was possible. She keeps her word, and begins a new intimate "kiss" treating Monica's clit, like the tip of a reciprocating tongue, her opening like an inviting mouth.

Monica in turn rocks, and arches, draping a leg over strong shoulder, stroking Tracy's back with her foot. She is fighting her orgasm; she just can't bear for this to end so soon.

Tracy grazes her nails under Monica's ass cheek, behind the thigh that is over her shoulder, and positions that hand under her chin that is just drenched in Monica's arousal. Tracy finds herself absently grinding her own crotch against the bunched up covers between her legs.

She draws her tongue up through folds, as she brings two fingertips to Monica's opening. She hums passionately against her, closes her lips around her nub, and slides inside.

The feel of push and pull, suck, and plunge brings Monica hands to her side to gather fistfuls of duvet, and lifts her ass inches off the bed. The sound that accompanied this made Tracy's own thigh muscles clench.

The pace is found by Tracy, the earth is lost to Monica. She pumps fingers deep, curving upwards finding the spot that had eluded every lover in Monica's life until now. Along with the swirling suction of Tracy's tongue, Monica knew the fight was about to end.

She begins to buck, Tracy hold fast, Monica's pussy becomes almost impossibly tight, she can hear her name amid reference to god, and urging curses. This is the truth Monica found, and Tracy fully understood the weight of this gift, returned to the giver.

"Tracy!" she thrusts hard, deep as she can, circling clit with devastating pressure while suckling

"Tracy, I'm going to cum" It is a statement of beautiful fact that flows from Monica in husky broken breaths. Monica brings herself up onto elbows so she can watch Tracy at this moment. She rides her fingers hard as the warm crush of climax beings as a fire in her core, and radiates in an explosive shockwave through every nerve and muscle of Monica's body. Her head drops back, her cries drowned out the thunder, the rain outside was arid compared to the emotional dam that crumbled in Monica. She is carried on this new wave to exhaustion.

Tracy finds herself taking in every drop she can that pours from the woman crumpled before her. This is her spirit, her liquid essence and to Tracy an avid fan of power, devouring her is tantamount to being one with her.

Catching her breath, she climbs the length of Monica, kissing her belly, each breast, causing Monica to Jerk. She is just swept up in the moment, the storm, and the sated, spent woman beneath her own shaking body. She kisses her tenderly before she slides of to lie at Monica's side.

Monica is still trying to regain herself, tremors continue to come and go, as she turns on her side towards Tracy. Tracy raises her arm to allow Monica in. She rests a head on her shoulder, and drapes an arm across Tracy's slick body. They lay this way, all out of words until the storm fades to a gentle rain.

The literal heat of the moment past, the chill of the night comes calling. Tracy reaches down to grab the throw that fell from the bed. She pulls it up with one arm, covering them the best she can, Monica straightens the rest.

A deep sigh, mixed in feeling, not confusion, but feeling for each other, leaves them almost in stereo.

"Are you alright?" Tracy asks, too tired to open her eyes, running her hand up and down Monica's arm.

"Yes, yes I am," Monica smiles shyly, tracing Tracy's collarbone, she relaxes into this embrace. Closing her eyes to focus on Tracy's heartbeat, she lays this way for some time before a question arises.

"Tracy?' Monica lifts her head, and is brought to tears by the first time she has ever seen such peace on this woman's face. The tranquility that clings like an aura is gorgeous, almost innocent on her smooth rested expression. There is no answer, just the soft sounds of unfettered slumber, coming in sweet, hushed tones.

She lay's her head back down, her tear drops unnoticed on Tracy's skin, and she too falls asleep.


	9. Chapter 9

The sun begins to filter through the blinds as Monica stirs. The first somber thought to pop into her waking mind is Alan. She opens her eyes slow, fills her lungs in a deep breath, bringing herself to her side, propping her head on her hand, and as quick as it came, the thought is replaced with the name of the woman who's sleeping beside her.

She smiles tenderly, feeling a tear develop in the corner of her eye.

The room has taken on a guiltless ambiance in the light of morning. The scent of sex that lingered so heavy before, has quelled to damp grass and flowers from the courtyard. The candle has melted into a smooth hard puddle on the nightstand, its wick, soot colored and flameless. The ceiling seems higher, the furniture less sharp. Antique white curtains move subtle, and loose, like gossamer wings from a fairytale.

The woman next to her is softer by all definition. She even seems more diminutive then Monica recalls. There are no secrets anymore, no unspoken wishes hidden behind battle axe boardroom doors. There was a femininity here that had not been so easily seen before.

Tracy is on her belly, hair tousled, blanket just barely covering her supple backside. The sound of contentment is prevalent in each breath. Her arms tucked under pillow, her one leg bent at the knee, foot hanging lazily off the side of the bed. She is the breathtaking image of comfort and satisfaction. The curve of her spine tells the story of Monica's excitement. The marks from clutching nails are red and deeper then Monica realized. Butterflies dance in Monica's tummy

Monica smiles as the evening before replays in her mind. She leans over and kisses a warm shoulder blade, while gently tracing between the scratches. Tracy hums, and turns her head to face the barer of the affection before stretching every delightfully rested muscle and rolling over. She winces slightly when the small of her back touches the cool sheets.

"Holy cow Monica" Tracy quips, reaching behind herself, feeling the welts.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd almost think you sharpened your nails just for me" she winks devilishly

_My god she is gorgeous_, Monica thinks to herself. Tracy just exudes a sleepy, casual, confidence, propped up on her forearms, and elbows; bare breasts, one knee up, toes pointed, the blanket corner just covering the sacred place between her legs. She closes her eyes, letting her head drop back, hair falling away from her face. She inhales through her nose, letting a relaxed sigh out through her parted lips. Monica feels her pulse quicken

Monica reaches out and touches Tracy's stomach, first with only fingertips, Tracy, head still back, eyes closed, smiling, is warmly delighted by this.

A strange beautiful relief surrounded her with this simple gesture. She was prepared on some level for Monica to awake a very different person. Scared, regretful, confused, or distant were all possibilities. In that vein of thought, she realizes, she could have easily woken up alone.

Oh how far the horizons seem to suddenly stretch. Tracy lets the warmth of Monica's touch radiate through her every cell.

She lays her hand flat, spreading her fingers open, then gently arcing fingertips, so only her palm and the tips of her nails scratch lightly above her bellybutton. Tracy's muscles reflexively respond with a tightening of her stomach. She emits a naughty chuckle.

"Careful with those" she snickers, maintaining her pose. Monica moves her hand up, tracing taught skin, but this time leaving no marks. The sensation is delicious, as it wakes every inch of flesh it passes.

"Um, Monica, I think you're headed in the wrong direction?" she states playfully

Monica obliges with a smile, and delightful u-turn, back past navel, just under the edge of the blanket, to find Tracy's soft hair. Tracy responds with just the slightest shift of her leg, to allow Monica access.

Monica comes in closer; Tracy turns her head for a slow, deep kiss that is as new, and earthshaking as their first. Monica's hand plays warm skin beneath the cover.

Tracy touches Monica's face, letting this sleepy yummy feeling envelope her senses. She lies back, and Monica follows, Tracy wraps sincere arms around the new keeper of her heart. No games, no roles to be assumed, this was mutual trust, respectful, and honest.

Not so long ago, these were two women with the forces of love and anger, frustration and loss, pulling them apart individually. They began a slow smoldering demolition of the barriers between them, knowing they were clawing at false facades, clearing clutter from the cracks of many years gone by, and giving perspective back to prideful places.

Not a word to be said, it had all been spoken, and nothing was guarded, presumed, or denied. Hands played skin with gentle mastery. They breathed for one another, tasted tears for what was lost, shared lingered stares for what was found. They quelled decade's long thirst with each others very essence that seeped hot and sweet from desires revered well.

Hunger was redefined, but would never be sated. Monica memorized curves with promises to revisit, and Tracy claimed secret pleasures no one dared before. Two newborn souls melted into one another as seamlessly as intertwined fingers. And when the shudders of climax ceased, the heartbeats blended into one, and the last tears of the day fell away, they slept again.

Tracy's body was a haven of comfort, cradling Monica's head; blonde locks weaved through caring fingers as she lay upon gently rising and falling chest. Monica literally became the soft blanket that covered her.

Monica is the first to stir when the sound of wheels on blacktop crept into the room, with rude realism.

She slips off of the woman who has held her unmoving for the past 4 hours, gathers a loose sheet around herself, and goes to the window which faces the main house.

Parting the curtains with a lump in her throat, she sees driver open the rear door to the Bentley to allow Edward his exit. Ned's car pulls behind, Dillon on the passenger side.

"Tracy" Whispers Monica, eyes fixed on the family convening at this house that was empty just the night before.

Before she can turn towards the bed, Tracy is already beside her, arm around her waist.

"I know" she replies, kissing Monica's cheek, and exiting briefly, to return with her robe, and Monica's pajamas.


End file.
